


afterthoughts

by revanchist



Series: afterthoughts [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25156672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revanchist/pseuds/revanchist
Summary: When Jack wakes up in the hospital bed, cotton-mouthed and sore, it takes him a moment to realize that the man slumped in the visitor’s chair is the wrong shade of blond.“What are you doing here,” he croaks, on his third try.“You’re awake,” Kent says, with a smile that mostly looks tired. He passes Jack a water bottle, and Jack flinches back, a little, but he takes it, careful sips even though his hands are trembling.Or, Jack takes a bad hit and forgets the past three years of his life.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Series: afterthoughts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822405
Comments: 52
Kudos: 185





	afterthoughts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to procrastinate a different Jack-centric amnesia fic, which itself was started to procrastinate a third and thoroughly amnesia-unrelated Bitty-centric fic. In both of those stories, things happen. In this story, very little happens, but Jack Zimmermann certainly has a lot of feelings. It is extremely self-indulgent, and the scraps of French may be mistranslated. I hope you enjoy it, nevertheless.

When Jack wakes up in the hospital bed, cotton-mouthed and sore, it takes him a moment to realize that the man slumped in the visitor’s chair is the wrong shade of blond.

“The fuck are you doing here,” he croaks, on his third try. 

“You’re awake,” Kent says, with a smile that mostly looks tired. He passes Jack a water bottle, and Jack flinches back, a little, but he takes it, careful sips even though his hands are trembling.

“How are you feeling?” Kent asks, and Jack just. He can’t do this. He doesn’t know why Kent is here. Why anyone would have let him in. 

Maybe, he thinks, clawing at a memory that won’t come, it was Kent that hit him. Kent, or one of his Aces. Maybe Kent’s feeling guilty. Or maybe Jack’s dreaming. Maybe this is a nightmare.

“You need to leave,” Jack says, forcing himself to look Kent in the eye. “I need you to leave.”

“Jack,” Kent says, cautiously. He’s leaning forward a little, and Jack can’t. He can’t.

“Parson,” he says, as cold and as mean as he knows how. “Get out.”

Kent’s eyes have iced over, reflecting the same blue-grey as the scuffed linoleum laminate lining the floor. He doesn’t reply for a long minute, just stands slowly, his hands hanging limp by his sides, and watches Jack back. 

“Right,” he says, finally, when Jack is just on the edge of figuring out something else to say, something worse. “I’ll get um, someone else, then.”

When he walks out of the room, the tension in Jack’s shoulders uncoils like a spring.

He closes his eyes and takes another sip of water, and breathes through the panic, and wonders how bad the hit was. After all, he can’t even remember the game. 

The next hour isn’t great. 

His mother comes in with the doctor, takes the chair Kent abandoned. Jack’s glad to see her, even though he’s got questions for her, the kind he doesn’t want to ask in front of a stranger. The doctor begins to run through the post-concussion checklist, and it takes all of thirty seconds before his mother nearly breaks his fingers gripping on when he tells the doctor that he’s twenty-six.

“Memory loss isn’t uncommon,” the doctor says, gently, “even though it’s rare to lose this much time. The brain is resilient.” 

Jack doesn’t want gentle. He doesn’t want to be handled. He’s itching to get out of the hospital gown, itching to go home. He’s already wondering, how long is this going to last? How long is he going to be out? The doctor has nothing useful to say. She thinks Jack’s got a good shot at getting his memories back. That he’s cleared to leave, but he’ll need to self monitor. She gives him a little pamphlet on PCS: brain fog, anxiety, depression, fatigue, nausea, light sensitivity, sleep disruption. A list of familiar symptoms with a different cause. He lets his mother tuck the printout into her purse. She goes out with the doctor, and he pulls on clean underwear and a pair of track pants from a backpack that’s been left next to the cot. He hesitates when he sees the shirt, a soft-worn flannel button down that he’s damn sure he didn’t buy, but he doesn’t have much choice unless he wants to walk out half-dressed.

He steps out to find his parents in the hallway, mid-way through a hurried conversation that cuts off when they see him. His father gives him a smile, claps a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, son, let’s get you home.”

Jack waits until they’re in the car before he asks where Bitty is. He doesn’t think it’s a conversation he wants to have in public. 

Some things have changed. Most things haven’t. He still plays for the Falconers. Still has the C. They haven’t traded him yet. The backpack on his lap has a get well soon card from the team, signed by some familiar names and some that he doesn’t recognize. He’s still got the condo in Providence, so his parents take him there. 

His mother walks him into the house while his father waits in the car. They’d traded a look across the front seat. The who’s going to handle our fucked up kid look. Jack hasn’t seen that one in a while. 

“We thought it would be better,” Alicia tries, gently, “if you were in your own space. The doctors suggested it might help you feel more at home.”

Jack nods. He’s moving on autopilot, putting the backpack down on the kitchen chair. He’s having trouble holding his hands still. There’s a twisting eel sitting in his stomach. He’s worried if he opens his mouth to speak, it’ll tear its way out. 

It took half the ride to convince his parents that he doesn’t need them to stay the night. It’s better if they sleep at their hotel. Yes, it’s alright if they go back to Montreal tomorrow. He knows they’re busy. He’s feeling fine. He’ll check in every day. Twice a day. Yes, he promises.

When the conversation turned, it took every scrap of discipline not to nullify his work. Even now, looking at the pile of mail on the kitchen table, already sorted into three piles, it’s taking all of his attention to keep himself settled, to not split open in front of his mother like a cored pear.

“Right,” he manages. He presses his lips together, and then asks, apprehensively, “And Kent?”

“He agreed.” Her mouth purses, then smoothes out. “He’s headed back to Vegas tonight.”

She’s too well-trained to have many tells, but Jack’s her son. He knows them all. 

It might go both ways: he carefully nods again. “Alright. Thank you for bringing me home, maman.” 

She gives him a gentle squeeze, and lets herself out, and then Jack’s alone in the apartment. Alone with the sorted piles of mail and the bed that someone else has been sleeping in for two days. 

The first thing Jack does is to plug in his phone. He walks through the apartment while it’s charging, each step heavier than the last. It’s the same place he remembers, but it doesn’t feel the same. An odd symmetry: he’s not the same person he remembers, but he feels the same.

There’s stuffed peppers in a casserole dish sitting in the fridge, a post-it note stuck to the top. _Reheat 350 15 min._ Quinoa, ground turkey, frozen peas. The slant-left handwriting that hasn’t improved since Juniors. It’s a far cry from one of Bitty’s homemade pies, and Jack stares into the refrigerator and wants, and wants, and wants. 

He closes the door, eyes stinging. The eel is back, or perhaps it hadn’t left. He isn’t hungry, anyway. He’s just woken up, but maybe he’ll go back to sleep, crawl right into bed while the sun’s still up. The manic energy zinging down his thighs suggests it won’t work, but he’s tempted all the same. 

When he turns on his phone, there’s a wave of missed calls, text messages, alerts from apps he doesn’t remember having. He dismisses the notifications, unready to deal with all of it. He’s not the right person to answer, or rather, he’s the right person with none of the answers they want. 

Instead, he watches the hit until he gets sick of the dull crack of his own head smacking the boards. It doesn’t even look like a dirty hit, just bad luck and a caught edge. His head is beginning to ache, a low throb that seems to run down into his back. He’s supposed to limit his screen time, but it’s easier to look up his own stats than confront the rest of the apartment. 

He spends too long trying to figure out how to change his phone background, fumbling through a system he’s not used to. It’s worth it, though, when plain blue replaces the candid snap of Kent asleep in the sunlight, a cat curled up on his chest.

It’s facile. Kent’s all over the apartment, even if he doesn’t live here. There’s the indentation of his head left on the pillowcase, golden hairs left on the sheets. Jack strips the bed, tosses the linens straight into the washer, remakes it. 

It doesn’t matter. It’s not enough. It’s been three years and he has no idea how he fucked up the best thing in his life. The gap in his memory stretches out, swallowing up three failed Cup runs and a silver medal at Worlds, but at least those answers can be found on Wikipedia. Jack is left with a handful of photographs on his mantle, trying to piece together his own history. 

Shitty and Lardo are married now, _To my BEST man!_ scrawled in the corner, and Jack doesn’t remember any of it. Tater is grinning, front tooth now missing, holding a baby who might be his. There’s a photo of his parents he recognizes. There’s a photo of the Falconers that won the Cup, and there’s a photo of Falconers who didn’t, sprinkled with faces he doesn’t know. There’s a photo from his five year Samwell reunion, and what looks like a QMJHL reunion, too. Jack’s in some of the photos, not all of them, but enough. He looks happy, mostly, a little older. He’s got a playoff beard in one, and a fake Santa Claus beard in another.

Kent’s not in all the photos, not even most of them. He’s in more of them than Jack would have hoped.

The worst is one that’s just the two of them, though, front and center like it's something to be proud of. Jack’s smiling and stupid in the photo, mouth half-open. His eyebrows are creased together and his eyes are crinkling shut and his hand rests on the back of Kent’s neck where Kent is leaning in, pressing his forehead into Jack’s shoulder. Kent looks good, the way he always does: glowing, exuberant, the life of every party. Jack looks foolish, caught at a bad angle.

He puts the frame face-down so he doesn’t have to look at it. 

He shouldn’t go for a run. Shouldn’t watch a movie to try to distract himself. Doctor’s orders, and he’s promised his parents. He takes a cold shower, lets it shock his system. Closes his eyes as the icicles pound into his shoulders. He uses the wrong shampoo before he catches his mistake, then washes his hair a second time. He’s been in the hospital for two days, it’s just good sense.

Under the water, it’s only his thoughts for company. Without the physical markers of his mistakes to fiddle with, he’s left with the facts he knows. 

In the last three years, he’s ruined his life. He’s broken things off with Bittle, or— more likely— he’d fucked up, somehow, let his worst parts leak out, and Bittle had enough, and left. Wikipedia didn’t mention a wedding, and surely he’d feel different, if he had been married, and then divorced? They’d been planning on a short engagement, a year at most. It narrows things down. 2016, 2017 maybe. He and Bittle break up. And then... 

Then Jack compounds his losing streak.

It makes no sense to Jack. Kent is out of his life. Kent is on the other side of the country, and Jack has— had moved on. Jack had made a new life, far away from Kent and his, his nostalgia for old Jack, the Jack that doesn’t exist anymore. The Jack he’s put to rest. There’d been nothing good about that Jack, just a laundry list of poor decisions. Nothing worth keeping and nothing worth caring about. That Jack had died on a bathroom floor. This Jack has moved on, made himself into something new. A role model. A champion. 

He doesn’t see how he’s gotten from there to here. He doesn’t understand. The cold water isn’t helping. The back of his neck is hot. What’s there to understand? That future-him had gone down the same bad path, made the same stupid mistake all over again? And hadn’t even tried a new way to make it, no, instead going straight back into the arms of the same goddamn person?

Future Jack isn’t smarter or better than Jack is now, in the same way that Jack-now isn’t smarter or better than Juniors Jack or Samwell Jack. It’s all just him, sometimes making good decisions, and sometimes making bad ones, and having to deal with the fallout, either way.

When he looks at it logically, this concussion is a gift, really. A way for him to take a step back, get some objectivity. Save future him from making an even bigger mistake. He can’t have been with Kent too long. The cracks would show. Kent would realize Jack wasn’t what he remembered. Jack would remember there was nothing real between them and never had been. 

This is probably some sort of quarter-life crisis. The sooner he moves past it, the better.

Jack pulls on clean boxers, a Falconers tee he can at least be sure is his, and sits down on fresh sheets. He’s bone-tired. His head hurts. He grasps for his phone, stumbling a little with the keyboard. He types out: _I think we should break up._

No, that’s not right. It leaves it open. Makes it a conversation. Kent’s always been better than him at conversations, at coming up with justifications, explanations, excuses. He needs something stronger. Something that won’t leave the door open for Kent to wiggle back through, a third time.

He deletes what he has, tries again. _This relationship isn't working for me. I need to take a step back._

That’s better. He hits send, and puts the phone on sleep mode, and carefully lays it face down to charge. He’s cold all the way down into his belly, but he can sleep now. The hard part is over.

He’s nervous that Kent will show up at his door. That Kent will buy another plane ticket from Vegas to Providence, third cross-country flight in four days.

It’s stupid, isn’t it, how his mind goes there. It keeps him awake longer than it should. How he’s so sure that Kent is desperate for him the way he is in the patchwork of Jack’s memories. 

It’s been three years. Kent has probably figured out by now that Jack’s not right for him, that they aren’t any better together than they’ve ever been. The two of them worked well with an expiration date, two fumbling kids bound by circumstances, not commonalities. Without the illicit thrill, the drugs, the boredom of billet living in the middle of nowhere with nothing but hockey and handjobs to entertain them— without the fear of change on the horizon, the Draft rushing towards them like an oncoming train, and Kent clinging to him like a childhood toy, as though what little lay between them might shield them both from harm.

When Jack checks his phone the next morning, he’s got two missed calls. One is from Kent, and the other’s from Shitty. Neither of them have left a voicemail, but his voicemail is full, anyway. His father has texted him to ask for an update. Kent hasn’t. 

He feels something down scooping a pit underneath his abdomen, but he makes a cup of coffee, goes for a light jog. Texts his parents an update. Showers and chokes down two eggs. 

Kent doesn’t show up, even though Jack’s on edge all morning, waiting for it. At eleven, he breaks his own rule and checks the Aces schedule. They’re playing the Avs tonight. Kent hasn’t been scratched. He’s not coming back to Rhode Island. He’s still the captain. He has a team to look out for. It makes sense.

There’s a call Jack needs to make. The number is still in his contacts. Maybe he can still make this right. 

“Jack?” says Eric Bittle, when he picks up the phone, “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise! What's the occasion?"

His voice is warm. It washes over Jack like a wave. He remembers so many nights spent listening to that voice across a phone line or through his screen, letting it center him. An oasis of calm and support. Someone who loved him.

He doesn't feel like that, now. It's a nice voice, with its chipper tone and Georgia vowels, but he doesn't feel better, hearing it. 

He needs to fix this.

"I got hit," he says, and stops, unsure of how to explain himself.

"Oh gosh— Jack, I'm so sorry to hear that! Is it serious? If there's anything I can do— I’ll send you something to cheer you up, lord knows we've got enough cherries in the freezer—"

"Thanks,” Jack says. “It, um. It put things in perspective. When I woke up in the hospital, I… it took me back. I’ve been considering the things that are important to me. What I want my life to look like."

"Hon.” There’s a pause. “Just because I'm the last person you proposed to doesn't mean I've got much in the way of advice."

"No!” Jack barks, then, “I— no, that's not it. That's not what I meant."

Cautiously, Bitty prods, "Then what?"

"I've got my head screwed on straight, that's what I meant. I can see now, I should never have let what we had go."

"I don't understand."

“Bittle,” Jack says, desperately, “I don’t know what I did, but you have to believe me. This is a mistake, alright? I made a mistake. Kent and I are done. For good, this time.”

“Jack—” 

“I love you.” He feels a little sick as he says it. “I love you. Je t'aime d’amour, de toute mon âme. I can’t do this without you.” 

There's a silence filled by his heart beating quick as hummingbird wings. There’s nothing down the line, not even the cadence of Bittle’s breathing.

He's not used to Bitty being the quiet one, but he never liked to tell Jack no. 

Jack pleads, "If there's anything I can do… you've got to tell me. If—"

"Jack, no." Bitty’s found his voice again. "I don't know where this is coming from, hon, but this isn't fair. We shouldn't be talking like this, dredging up old history. We had wonderful times. The best. And you know you'll always be important to me. But… that's in the past." 

"Right," Jack says. He feels nauseous. "Right. I know. I know that. I was being silly. Sorry. I'll let you go."

"You'll talk to someone, right?" Bitty asks, hesitantly. "If you're this unhappy, you can make changes. Even though we're not together, I still care, Jack."

"Yeah," he says. "Thanks, Bittle."

He wants to call Shitty back. Jack feels like shit. Shitty has, historically, been good at making that feeling go away. It can’t go any worse than the last call did. 

He sits on the couch for an hour, then two: not calling anyone, staring at the blanked out TV screen. Just him and an empty house and memories of a world that doesn't exist anymore. 

“Jack!!” Shitty shouts. There’s a sound like he’s fumbling the phone, someone speaking in the background. Lardo, maybe. When he gets back to the receiver, he barrels straight on: “Oh sheee _yet_ , that was probably too loud, sorry. How’s the head, man?”

"I'm fine," Jack says, quick and curt, and then adjusts. "It was bothering me last night," he admits, "and the sunlight is a little much, but it's better with the blinds down."

“Sucks, man,” Shitty says. He pitches his voice, conspiratorial, "And how are you feeling? I’d be a mess with three years missing.” 

“I guess my parents filled you in,” Jack says, tipping his head back against the couch. 

“Ah, sort of.” Shitty pauses. “Sort of no. Actually, Kent called.” 

Jack says nothing.

“From the airport,” Shitty clarifies.

Jack says nothing.

“He was very factual,” Shitty babbles. “It was like cross-examining an expert witness. You, uh. You didn’t call to talk about Kent, though, did you?”

“No. Yes. It’s just...” Jack closes his eyes. “How do I feel? I feel like I woke up and nothing makes sense. I was making it. I had everything I wanted. And now I’m— I don’t even know.”

Shitty hums. “You think you’ve made a mistake.” He doesn’t sound surprised. 

That strikes Jack as odd. He should sound surprised.

“Bitty called Lardo,” Jack realizes. His hand curls in front of his mouth. Breathe, he thinks. Just breathe. 

“Ah, yeah,” Shitty admits, sheepishly. “About twenty minutes ago. He was really freaked out. He didn’t know about your whole, uh, memory thing. He thought you had like, brain damage.” There’s a beat of silence, then he blurts: “I mean, you kind of do? No offense.” 

Jack’s feeling small and embarrassed, his stomach still tied in a Gordian knot, but that startles a snort out of him. 

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Shitty sighs. “It’s not like I’m gonna be able to explain _you_ to you.”

Jack chews his lip. There’s a ghost of old memory, a thumb brushed over the corner of his mouth. _Don’t do that, you’ll reopen the cut, dumbass._ “How did I get here?”

“Okay, uh. This is _so_ not my story to tell, but... Bitty got the job in San Francisco.”

“The food startup?”

“That’s the one. He’s still there, actually— shit, I’m skipping. He took the job, moved out there. Two months later, you and him called it quits. You were a mess after, but you swore it was mutual.”

“The press must’ve had a field day.”

“It wasn’t the best off-season ever, no. But like, it’s funny you say that, because you kind of got lucky? Or rather, KP got really, _really_ unlucky.” Shitty takes a deep inhale, loud enough for Jack to hear it, then barrels through: “Someone leaked tape during preseason. Broke NDA. Textbook revenge porn. Parson’s face was front and center, like, no way to deny it. It was _bad_. He came out. Not like he had much of an option. Fuckin’ beauty of a statement though. The Aces fucking imploded. He lost the C. He almost got sent down. The team was riding bottom of the Pacific Division, who knows what was going on in the locker room. Trade rumors, all that shit, I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Crisse.”

“Your dad gave like, the spiciest interview SportsCenter has ever seen. Totally blistering. He’s gonna die mad at that dude who owns the Aces. Which, honestly, same. Kent doesn’t talk about it— I mean, maybe he’s told you— but he must’ve busted a nut that winter because he got the C back and dragged the Aces to a wild-card spot. The NHL was on fire for like, the entire season.”

Shitty’s on a roll, and Jack doesn’t know what to say. It sounds like a nightmare. He and Kent were friends once. Team. As far as Jack’s concerned, they’re not friends now, but that’s a year he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. 

He’s kind of proud, hearing about it. Kent had gotten through. He was still alive, still playing. That was worth something, maybe. He had said something once, hadn’t he? Back in juniors, in the haze right before sleep. _D’you think it’s worth it, even if it’s all a lie— it’s gotta be, right?_ Jack hadn’t said anything. He’d pretended to be asleep. It hadn’t come up again. Parse hadn’t brought it up again. 

“Some guy on the Leafs came out, and then another guy on the Rangers,” Shitty adds, slower. “And some guys in the AHL. Then a first round draft pick. I think it, like, opened a door. At that point, maybe they figured it couldn’t possibly go worse. Anyway, uh, you two reconnected in the middle of the shitshow. You weren’t really forthcoming with the details, which I’m sure will shock and amaze you…” 

“Ha.” 

“I only found out about it when you asked if you could bring him as your plus-one to our wedding. Man, you have got to be better about keeping me posted, what if you lose all your memories or something, oh wait—”

Jack scoffs, instinctive: “Didn’t call to be chirped, Shitts.” He rubs a hand over his hair. He isn’t sure what to say.

“I’m gonna give you a word of advice,” Shitty muses, “from the wisdom of married age, and all. I was worried about you at first, no lie. Not my place to police your decisions, but Lardo and I talked about it. Friend shit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If it wasn’t so obvious how happy you’ve been, maybe I would have said something. But, dude, you were so happy. It was like, shining out of you. You still are. When you were up visiting last time, you could not stop yourself, he was in every story out of your mouth, even the ones he hadn’t been there for.”

Jack’s reminded of being seventeen, suddenly, and of another phone call. Two months into his billet and his father saying, “You’ll have to bring your friend Kent to dinner when we visit; hell, we’ve heard so much about him, I feel like we’ve met already.” Jack had been flustered, flushing and awkward and alone in his billet bedroom, sure his father was exaggerating. He hadn’t said that much, surely. “Baby, you barely tell us anything,” his mother had laughed, “trust me, in comparison, you’ve been absolutely effusive.” 

He’s brought back to the present as Shitty says, “You know I’ll back your play no matter what, but your situation, like, the amnesia? It’s temporary.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack snaps. “I mean, uh. That’s what the doctor said.” He doesn’t know what it means if it’s not, if they’ll let him play, if he’s looking at his career ending before he’s thirty. He hasn’t let himself think about it. He has enough on his plate, without it.

“So, sooner or later you’re going to remember the how and why. But honestly, who cares? If you’re happy, then it’s worth it. If you’re not... if this really feels wrong to you, I’ll believe you. Just… make sure you’re sure.” 

He’s being stupid. They’re just peppers. It’s not a statement, if he eats them. He sets the oven to preheat, and tells himself they’re in his fridge. It doesn’t matter who made them. He needs to eat lunch.

Fifteen minutes at 350. He sets the timer, and looks at his texts. He can do it, for fifteen minutes. It’s not even a full period. He spends most of it scrolling through, mostly copy-pasting. He’s doing alright. Not sure when he’ll be back on ice. He’s taking it easy. Doctor’s orders.

The last one he opens as the timer’s counting down from sixty. 

**_Parse  
_ ** _gl tonight red wings get wrekt_

**_You  
_ ** _:)_

**_Parse  
_ ** _i jsut saw the replay, fuck  
_ _at the airport idk if you’ll see this before i see you. i talked to your dad they’re on their way down._

**_You_ ** _  
_ _This relationship isn't working for me. I need to take a step back._

The alarm goes off and Jack drops the phone. He can’t find the oven mitts. Maybe they’d been Bittle’s. He finds a dish rag that’s screen-printed with kaleidoscopic cats. It is, objectively, hideous. 

It does the job. The peppers taste fine.

The texts don’t really say anything, do they? If he— if Kent had been serious about him, surely there would have been more.

Bitty had sent him messages before every game. Jack can’t put his finger on any examples, the words running out of his brain like sand through a sieve. They’d been long, he remembers. Effusive. Sentences flowing into verbose passages. He’d always checked them, dutifully before each game. He knew the read receipts were important to Bitty. 

It’s a far cry from _gl tonight red wings get wrekt._ He can, he can imagine the message Bitty would have sent, if Jack had gotten hit, sent to the hospital. I love you, please be okay, I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it. It’s a little embarrassing to think about. That’s what you did, though, wasn’t it? That’s how you knew it was love. When you were in love, you told people how you felt, or if you were bad at saying it, if you were like Jack and putting it in words was hard, you said it with grand gestures. 

Kent doesn’t have to imagine his life without Jack in it, though. Kent already knows what that life looks like. 

It’s difficult to imagine, Kent loving him. He’s like Jack, or rather, like Jack had been, before Samwell. He loved hockey, and there wasn’t really room for anything else. 

Sometimes Kent had gotten mixed up in his head about it, when they were younger. He’d said dumb shit, shit that made Jack mad enough to double his dose, chasing that float-easy feeling. Totally delusional shit, like Kent was the one who was high, like there was room for that, between them and hockey. Jack had known better. It wasn’t that Parse was dumb. He was just naive. He thought they were living a movie, and maybe they were, but it wasn’t that kind of movie.

No matter what Kent said, and Kent had said a lot of things, he’d excelled. He had won and kept on winning. It hadn’t made much of a difference in the end, Jack not being there for it. It hadn’t slowed Kent down at all. _I miss you,_ he’d said, over and over. Like you’d write on a postcard. It didn’t mean anything, when the evidence was right there, in front of them both. Kent didn’t need him and never had and Samwell, Samwell and the Falconers and the Stanley Cup showed— proved— that Jack had been right all along, that Jack didn’t need him right back.

He looks for the video that evening. He remembers the Falconers PR brief: once something is on the internet, it’s there forever. Celebrity sex tapes, poorly considered tweets, and photos so dumb they get memed. Once they’re out there, you can’t take them back. Some asshole will find it, save it, upload it somewhere the takedowns can’t touch. Other assholes will keep downloading it, watching it, talking about it. Continuing the cycle, until it’s the only thing anyone remembers.

Jack’s not proud of it. He knows what he’s doing is wrong. It’s not a good impulse. He just needs to know, and if he feels like this now, he would have felt like this _then_. He’s uncomfortably sure that he’s done this before. This is another part of the puzzle. He needs to watch it, in case there’s a clue.

Besides, he’s got more of a claim to it than most, hasn’t he? There isn’t going to be anything in there he hasn’t seen before. There had been a time when it had been his and his alone. When he was the sole and exclusive guardian of the memory of what Kent looked like, propped up against the headboard, his cock curving up towards his abs, his hand moving along it, lazy. Fat-cat smile on his face, _come’ere Jack_.

He isn’t a genius at the internet, but he doesn’t have to be. He finds the video. He waits for it to buffer. He presses play.

It’s not professionally shot. It’s shaky phone cam footage: dirty lens and bad lighting, what looks like the edge of a hotel couch. Kent’s on his knees, shirt still on. There’s a hand in his hair, rough-knuckled, Rolex on the wrist. Kent’s got something tied around his eyes. A men’s tie in blue pinstripes. That makes sense, Jack thinks: Kent wouldn’t have agreed to video. Even at his most carefree, he was never that careless.

Stupid, though, to cover his eyes. The curl of his eyelashes at half-mast, his irises liquid and silvery, the rare, reverent glance up as his cheeks hollowed. His eyes had been the best part.

Even with the blindfold, Shitty’s right: it’s unmistakeably Parson. His jawline, his cowlick, the freckles across the snub of his nose. The precious expanse of his neck. He’s got his mouth full already, swallowing around it. He’s so good. He always was.

“That’s right.” The hand holding the camera wavers. “You’re such a slut for this.” 

Jack’s equanimity shatters. Parse's eyes are still hidden, but Jack sees his throat hitch. The smallest twitch. The sort of thing anyone would miss. They’re the wrong words, he thinks, suddenly angry. The wrong thing to say. Kenny wouldn’t— Kenny didn’t like—

He slams the laptop shut. 

It had been easy to be around him. 

There had not been much of anything to do, up in Rimouski, apart from hockey and the local girls, and some nights there were parties, with handles of cheap vodka and trash cans filled with juice. Jack had never been good at talking to people. It was easier if he was drunk, or if he was on the ice. He wasn’t interested in the local girls. He wasn’t interested in most of his teammates, either. 

Looking back, he’d been a shitty captain. He can say that now. He hadn’t given a damn about his players. He’d seen them as pieces on a board, things that moved so he could win.

Kent had started that way, but the box Jack slotted him into hadn’t held him long. 

The next morning, Jack texts his parents, his agent, his trainer. 

He’d woken up once last night, maybe this morning, reaching for someone who wasn’t there. A vague need, the expectation of a body: no way to tell which body, especially not in the light of day with the impression already fading. Other than that, he’d slept through the night. That’s the part he tells his parents: he slept fine. The headache is gone. The sunlight is better, this morning. His memories still aren’t back.

Without the sunlight beating a splinter into his forehead, he’s feeling looser. Mellow enough to think, maybe he should be trying a little harder to remember. Maybe getting his memories back is something he should want. He still isn’t sure how he feels about this life, but it’s his life. Without those memories, how is he supposed to decide if it needs to change?

He walks back to the mantle and picks up the frame that’s lying face-down, and lets himself look at it. He was right: it’s not his best angle. It’s not, technically, compositionally, a very good shot. There are better photographs in this house: in the past few years, Jack has gotten around to filling up his walls. There’s a photograph of Fremont Street, circa 1960-something, hanging in the hallway, but most of it hews closer to his taste.

This photo, on the other hand, is a little blurry. It looks like it was taken on a phone, the difference only obvious when he sets it back next to the professional shot from Shitty’s wedding. Kent’s in that photo, too— not his face, not all of him, just his left hand on the table, part of his arm pressed in next to Jack’s, as Jack leans away to speak to the happy couple. There’s a scar on Kent’s ring finger that he’s had since he busted it open on someone’s face back in the Q. Lardo and Shitty are glowing, like they’re lit up from the inside. Jack can recognize the look on his own face, a rare and uncomplicated joy. 

When he looks back at the snap of himself and Kent, he can recognize it again. It’s the same look. When the two shots are next to each other, it’s impossible to ignore. He still doesn’t know when the photo was taken. He doesn’t remember the circumstances, if it was a special day or not. It matters and it doesn’t. 

Here is exhibit A: proof that sometimes, he and Kent can make each other happy. That’s what Shitty said: Jack was happy. It’s plausible. There’s historical precedent. All else aside, they’d had good times, once upon a time. 

Is it enough? It wasn’t the first time. It’s hard to believe that it will be, now.

He doesn’t remember the first time he kissed Kent, not really. He remembers waking up the morning after: the two of them shoved together in his twin-sized bed, shirts and jeans and socks still on, his arm gone numb under Kent’s side. He’d known, all at once, that he’d done it, that it had _happened_ , but he had been drinking. The details were wiped away. The night before was a brownout haze.

He’d looked at Parse so many times: his hands, his thighs, his jaw. He’d looked at him, and wanted him, and known it could never, never happen.

After that, he’d known better than to ask how or why. They were living in a soap-bubble, a dream barely big enough for two— if he looked too close, it would only hasten the waking.

He’s lost their second first kiss, now. It doesn’t seem fair. How is he meant to compare it? 

How can he be sure that it’s real, that it’s going to be different this time?

Jack’s been thumbing in his passcode for three days, reflexive. He’s going to check the weather when he catches himself on the swipe. 012917. It’s a date, maybe, but it’s not one he recognizes. A search turns up the 2017 All-Star Game and Jack’s name on the roster. He tabs over to Pacific Division, but Kent Parson from the Las Vegas Aces isn’t there. His team sent their 2017 draft pick and Jeff Troy instead. Dead end. 

Jack’s stumped for as long as it takes to finish his coffee, then he goes to his email, punches in the date.

There’s a car rental agreement from Enterprise LAX, dated close to midnight on the 29th. Drop off at McCarran on the morning of the 30th, barely four hours later. A flight change confirmation. There’s a story here, hidden in the space between. 

Something happened in LA. He doesn’t know what. Something happened in Vegas. He doesn’t know what. It’s a refrain he’s getting tired of. The person with the answers is the person he can’t ask. It’ll only confuse him. Parse always confuses him. He complicates everything. He doesn’t stay in the box Jack puts him in, not any of them, not once: teammate, friend, best friend, best friend and. Jack broke up with him two days ago. He should be thinking about something else by now.

Jack broke up with him two days ago. It’s possible Parse has gone out and. 

That he’s—

He’s been on the cover of Sports Illustrated and GQ. He’s— if he wants a rebound, if he wants to go and bury his dick in a, a businessman in town for a conference, a twinky twenty-something drunk and horny on the Strip, one of those, those AHL guys Shitty mentioned, the ones who are out now, or, or anyone he wants. Anyone would— no one would be stupid enough to— there could be someone else with him right now. Someone like that man from the video, someone tangling their hand in his hair and saying the wrong things, or, or worse, saying the right ones, and Jack—

Jack’s dumped him from a hospital bed twice now. Jack’s made himself clear. 

Who’s stupid enough to say no to him? Jack is, Jack is, Jack is—

Jack is sitting down. He presses his forehead to his knees. His heart’s beating in his chest like he’s been bag-skated. Like he’s about to neatly lose his breakfast. 

Anxiety, he thinks. That’s what this is. Energy with nowhere to go.

There are things in the house he’s been avoiding. He’s made an inventory of them: one pair of extra snow boots in the mud room, one extra toothbrush in the bath, two comic books shelved on the bookcase, shoved between Roch Carrier and _The Path to Power_.

There’s something here, isn’t there? There’s something here, but he can’t find it. He digs through his camera roll, scrolls back up through his text history. Jack hasn’t changed; he still doesn’t text much. What’s there is quotidian. He’s suddenly, desperately, furious with himself. He should have written it out. He should have kept a diary. He should have explained it to Shitty, so Shitty could quote it back at him, flawless. He should have made it obvious, obvious how he felt, obvious why he felt that way. He should have left a trail that he could follow. He should have made the answer clear.

He doesn’t know if he— the other Jack, the Jack that’s lost— loves Kent Parson. 

It’s not something he… has thought about.

It’s not a question he’s ever thought to ask.

He didn’t before. He knows that. He didn’t before. He doesn’t.

He wants to know why it’s different now. If it’s different now. He doesn’t feel different now.

Surely, he should feel different now.

He doesn’t want to talk to his father about it, but sometimes his father knows things. His father’s got an eye for patterns: he picks up on things Jack would rather stay hidden.

The conversation meanders for a while. Jack’s distracted, caught up in his head, trying to put together the words he wants to say.

His father picks up on it. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, son. We were worried.” 

“My memories aren’t back,” Jack blurts, “but I.”

He stops. The silence hangs. 

Jack swallows and closes his eyes and says, “Kent and I,” and stops again.

“Ah,” his father says.

“You know we’re… together,” Jack confirms. He thinks: _start with what you know._

“Yes.” 

He hesitates, unsure. “And you, eugh, you know that… it’s not the first time.”

This time, his father’s the one who hesitates. “Kent mentioned it to your mother once. He thought she— well, he thought we knew.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” Jack says. 

“We figured that out,” Bob says, bone dry. “Do you remember what you told us, last time you were in the hospital?”

Jack does: _I can’t be around him and do the right things. He makes it difficult to choose the right thing._

His parents hadn’t known about the rest of it. It was easier that way. Jack could tell the truth, simple and stripped of the incidental, and let them draw their own conclusions. It had served its purpose. Kent hadn’t been added to the visitors list. His parents had courteously cut him from their acquaintance. 

“Your mother and I are always going to be on your side,” his father says, gently, “but you need to trust us to make the choice for ourselves.”

“I know,” Jack swallows. “I know that now.”

“I know,” his father says. His voice is warm. He doesn’t seem angry, or disappointed. “We’ve already had this conversation. I guess that gives me the advantage.”

“What did I say?”

“That it wasn’t us you hadn’t trusted.” Bob laughs a little. “I’m not sure if that helps.” 

“With Eric, you knew.” Jack clears his throat. “You could tell that I, how I felt.”

“Well.” He clears his throat. “Sure.”

“And with Kent…”

There’s a long pause. “I didn’t see it,” Bob admits. “I didn’t see it.”

“Right,” Jack says. That’s what— he knew that. He knows that already. It shouldn’t hurt to hear it said out loud.

“We’ve never talked about it. What it is you have.”

“This time.” 

“This time.” He pauses. “Have you talked to him about it?”

When Jack doesn’t answer, his father says, “Well. Consider it.”

He doesn’t text Parse. He looks at their texts. Like his future, like his past: he doesn’t know what to say. 

He opens another thread.

**_Eric Bittle_ ** **_  
_ ** _Happy birthday, Jack! Cookies in the mail. :)_ _  
_ _  
_ **_You_ ** **_  
_ ** _Thanks!_ _  
_ **_  
_ ** **_You_ **  
_You’re right, it wasn’t fair of me to dump that on you. I’m sorry._

There’s no immediate response, but he doesn’t think he needs one. He thumbs over to a different conversation.

**_You_ ** _  
_ _Can you book me a seat on the next flight to LV?_

This response comes back before he’s pulled himself off the couch.

_A car will be at yours in forty minutes. Hope you’re feeling better, boss!_

He’s throwing a change of clothes into a bag when he finds it, tucked underneath his socks. _You’re a cliche, Jack Zimmermann_ , he thinks. He puts it back where he found it and finishes packing, but his mind keeps jumping back to the curve of white-gold. 

In its own way it means less than the boots, the toothbrush, the comic books. This— it’s something he’s failed at once before. It isn’t even on someone’s finger, it’s only a possibility. It’s far from a guarantee.

He takes it out once more to look at, before he leaves to catch his flight. Just to remind himself it’s there.

He lands at McCarran and the slot machines greet him. Something in him settles at the sound. When he walks out into the heat, he feels a rising in his chest, a faint euphoria. It curls through him warm and welcome and peculiar. 

He feels a certain gravity, too. A hook around his diaphragm. It’s pulling him forward. 

There’s a driver waiting for him, which is helpful, because he doesn’t know the address. He spends the drive frozen in the backseat, counting the turns, failing entirely to come up with a plan. 

He hasn’t told anyone he’s coming. For all he knows, he’ll need a hotel, or a flight back. He waves the driver off, though. “I’ve got it,” Jack says, shouldering his bag. It’s a goddamn lie. 

He’s calm in the space after he rings the bell. This is it or it isn’t, he thinks. 

His mind empties. Then the door opens.

Kent is wearing an old sweatshirt, ratty at the hem. He’s wearing socks and slides, and basketball shorts with the logo worn off. He opens the door and freezes with it half ajar, one hand on the jamb and the other on the handle. He doesn’t say a goddamn thing. He doesn’t move a goddamn muscle.

It’s possible, Jack thinks, that neither of them is goddamn breathing.

Jack looks at him and looks at him and wants to put his hands on him so goddamn much he feels like he’ll be sick with it. Like the feeling is roiling in his belly and spitting its way up his throat. 

He doesn’t know why he feels like this. The reasons are locked up inside his head somewhere he can’t reach. He just knows what’s been left in its wake, the pleasure of the scar. 

Jack lets his bag slump off his shoulder to his feet, his hands opening and closing fruitlessly at his sides. 

“ _I want to remember you_ ,” he says. The words tear out of him. Je veux me souvenir de toi, he does, he does. “I want to remember you.”

Kent’s knuckles are white on the knob. He laughs, an odd, abortive sound. He lets go of the door, and steps back. The shade falls across his face like a veil. 

He says: “You might as well come in.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me [on tumblr](http://tulakhord.tumblr.com/).
> 
> edit (11/7): this now has [a director's commentary](https://tulakhord.tumblr.com/post/634189242229211136/afterthoughts), though death of the author, disparate readings are encouraged, etc.


End file.
